Chapter 28: While You Can
Sherlock stared blankly at the newly added IV drip that had been set up beside him. He watched as the substance trickled in the bag, bit by bit, and traveled through the thin tube that was connected to his body. His mind was clouded by a mixed fog of pain and morphine. In a way, he felt as if he were in some form of a trance; aware of his surroundings, but too relaxed to respond. No, not relaxed; he was in too much pain to even consider the thought of being relaxed. He had been told that the bone marrow transplant was not going to be easy, but words can never match the actual situation.
"It'll be like a blood transfusion only tougher." the doctor had explained while he was setting it up, "You're body is going to be fighting the whole time so be prepared for some discomfort. If you feel as if there is anything wrong, please do not hesitate to press the call button."
If he had the energy at the time, Sherlock would have told the doctor how idiotic that suggestion was. Of course he was going to feel as if something was wrong; his whole body felt wrong which is why this process was necessary. Despite his annoyance, though, Sherlock kept his mouth shut and just gave in to the whole situation.
For days and days now, Sherlock's life had become a simple, three step routine: wake up, have the doctor's run tests, go back to sleep. He didn't have the energy for anything else and even if he did, it was highly unlikely anyone would let him. He felt like an invalid laying in that hospital bed. He wanted to move around, get his legs working again and breathe the London air once more. It had been too long since he had seen something other than his hospital room. Sometimes, he'd wonder if he'd ever get out of this room or if he'd ever take on another case. He knew that he was in a bad way and there could very well be no end in sight.
He was never alone, though; the Watsons or Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft were always at his side. And, of course, he had Molly. She never left him; she was there when he'd drift off to sleep and there when he'd wake. It wasn't until today, three days after he had woken up, that Molly wasn't at his side. She and Mary had gone to Baker Street to retrieve some of Sherlock's clothes so that he would be more comfortable. She had left a note stating that she'd be by in the evening, but Sherlock didn't actually mind. He wanted her to be out, not trapped at his side while his body tried to build itself back up.
He didn't want her to see him this broken.
"The doctor will be in shortly to check up on you," John said looking over the monitors, "How you feeling?"
"Hmm," Sherlock grunted, lazily brushing a hand through the air, "fine."
"Liar." John chuckled, taking a seat right at the edge of the bed.
"Am I that obvious?" Sherlock sighed, "I must be getting sloppy." He gave his friend a small smile but then turned his attention back to the IV.
"Your numbers are up," John said after a few moments of quiet, "and it seems your body is reacting well to the transplant."
"I'd hope so." Sherlock sighed, "Mycroft is my brother and thus the ideal donor."
"He cares about you," John replied, "despite whatever air the two of you put on: you care about one another."
"Hmm,well,this couldn't have been easy on his body," Sherlock sighed, leaning back against his pillows, "Suppose I should thank him next time he's here."
"You should." John persisted. He would have pushed the topic further if he hadn't noticed Sherlock's eyelids drooping; "Is it the morphine that's making you tired?"
"Mhm," Sherlock grunted, giving in to his fatigue and allowing his eyes to close, "It's fine."
"Is it making you groggy?" John asked, "If you want, I'm sure we can talk to your doctor about lessening the dose."
"Lessen the dose?" Sherlock chuckled, "Why would I want that?"
"Sorry," John replied with a roll of his eyes, "I forgot about the relationship you have with morphine."
"Is that what we're calling my addiction now?" Sherlock slurred, already beginning to drift off to sleep.
John shook his head and looked down in his lap; "I'm sure Molly's over the moon to see how well you're doing," he said, happy to change the subject, "We all are."
"How well I'm doing." Sherlock repeated with a small chuckle, "Funny."
"Seriously, Sherlock, I know you don't think so, but you are recovering really well," John went on, "You're awake, you're speaking in coherent, full sentences and you'll be able to start walking about in a few days. This is all very good."
"So you keep saying." Sherlock sighed
"At this rate, I think you'll be headed home soon." John said, "They'll have to run a few more tests, but you'll be back at Baker Street before you know it."
"And then what?" Sherlock asked, "I'm sure there is a bit of follow-up."
"Well, even though the transplant appears to be working, you're not fully healed. In truth, Sherlock, you'll most likely suffer from this illness for the rest of your life."
"Hmm, well, at least my future will be interesting."
John shook his head and looked at his friend's blank and peaceful expression. If it wasn't for the tapping of his fingers against the sheets, John would of sworn that Sherlock had drifted off to sleep. There was something about his tone just now that worried John. It seemed as if he didn't care at all: not about going home, being better, any of it. With a heavy sigh, John continued; "You look so different," he said solemnly, "Stupid thing to say, yes, but you really do."
"It's the facial hair, hmm?" Sherlock said, "Molly seems to like it."
"No, I mean, you don't look like you anymore." John clarified, "You look smaller and…and, well, broken. Usually, you look like you can push through anything. I mean, I've seen you fight through a bullet to the chest, internal bleeding, a drug overdose, but now-Christ, Sherlock, I thought you had stopped fighting this time. I really did."
At that, Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his gaze toward John. He studied his friend's expression, taking in every detail that his addled brain would allow and then let out a sigh; "Well, look at that," he said, a small, half-mouth smile growing across his lips, "my Boswell is learning."
"Your what?" John asked.
"My Boswell. That's you." Sherlock said, lazily waving his hand toward John, "My companion, my confidant, my…admirer."
"Admirer, well," John chuckled, "don't tell my wife."
"You know what I mean," Sherlock sighed, "You know me, better than most I would say. Well, with the exception of Molly."
"Yes, I suppose so," John said, furrowing his brow, "but I don't know what you're-"
"Why haven't you asked me about that text?"
John paused for a moment and took in a deep breath. He knew what Sherlock was referring to and he had hoped that they weren't going to discuss it; he was hoping that Sherlock had forgotten about it completely.
"I sent Lestrade a text telling him to contact Mycroft for the location to come and find Molly and I," Sherlock went on, "I told him to bring you."
"Sherlock," John sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "we don't have to go into this."
"He obviously followed my instructions," Sherlock continued, "and I don't doubt that he showed you the text that I sent just moments after."
"Sherlock, can we-"
"'Don't try to save me. Take care of Molly.'"
"Sherlock, please-"
"Ask me, John."
John looked at Sherlock and sighed heavily. The words he wanted to say were just on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't bring himself to speak. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts and then spoke very carefully: "Sherlock, did…did you want to die that night?"
Sherlock took in a deep breath and lazily set his hand atop John's; "Yes," he sighed after a few minutes of silence, "I was in so much pain, John. Everything falling apart around me and the case-God, this case. When I was on that boat, I was loosing my mind. I couldn't think or…or stay awake. John, I let people die because I was too weak to fight Moriarty."
"Molly told us about the beatings and the drugs," John said, shaking his head in disbelief, "Sherlock, that mad man was going to kill those people regardless if you had been well or not."
"They were there because of me, John," Sherlock said, "I was the reason they were brought on board and I couldn't help them. Look at me. I'm not the man I was before and I…I didn't think I could ever be that man again. So, yes, I did want to die that night. I've wanted to die since the moment you diagnosed me. I wanted to end it all right there on the deck of that boat. I accepted my fate and…and I was ready to let go."
"You…you sound like you've changed your mind since then," John said, taking a firm hold of his hand now, "Please God, tell me you have."
Sherlock let out a heavy sigh as he looked back at the IV set up beside him. After a few moments of quiet, he gave John's hand a small squeeze and motioned his head toward the small bedside table: "Did you see the envelope Mycroft dropped off?" he asked, referring to the manila shipping envelope resting beside his water glass, "He dropped it off this morning."
"Um, yeah," John said, "and as much as I'd love to have a conversation with you about everyday things like this, I would much rather discuss-"
"Can you open it for me?"
"Sorry?"
"The envelope. Can you open it for me?"
Thoroughly confused at this point, John picked up the envelope and ripped open the top of it. He peered at it's contents, furrowed his brow, and then looked back at Sherlock; "I don't get it," he said, "is it a clue or something?"
Sherlock chuckled lightly as he shook his head; "Nothing like that," he said, "Take it out and open it."
John reached inside the envelope and pulled out a small wooden cube. He folded it over in his hands a few times, taking note of how light weight it was, and then carefully removed the top. He looked at the cube's contents and let out a small laugh; "Well, when you said I was your admirer, I guess you weren't joking," he said, looking back at Sherlock, "but you do know that I'm already married? A diamond ring isn't really appropriate."
"Funny," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes a bit, "but it's not for you."
"Yeah, no, I figured that," John replied, "Sherlock is…is this what I think it is?"
"It's my mother's engagement ring," Sherlock said, "My mother had given it to Mycroft in hopes that her oldest son would pass it on to the woman he'd marry. I don't need to tell you how improbable that scenario is. Naturally, it has been sitting in his safe for years. A few mornings ago, before you and Molly had arrived to visit me, I asked him for it because I intend on making use of it. I intend on giving it to Molly."
John looked at Sherlock in absolute shock. Had he seriously just heard that? Sherlock was thinking of…purposing?
"You're serious?" he asked, "Sorry, I know that's not the best response, but-Sherlock, are you asking Molly to marry you?"
"I already have," Sherlock said, "on the boat, I told her that I wanted to spend forever with her. That's a proposal, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I'd say so," John sighed, raising his eyebrows, "Well, that's…that's not something I ever thought I'd hear from you."
"What? That I'd honestly want to settle down with Molly?"
"That you'd want to settle down at all."
Sherlock chuckled a bit and leaned back against his pillows; "I love her, John," he whispered, closing his eyes, "is that so crazy?"
"For you? Yes," John replied, "Is…is that why you changed your mind about dying? Because of Molly."
Before Sherlock could muster a response, there came a small knock from the door.
"Excuse me, Doctor Watson," the nurse said, "Mr. Holmes' doctor is here to check up on the transfusion. If you wouldn't mind stepping out of the room for a few moments, please."
"Go on, John," Sherlock sighed, taking a hold of his friend's hand and giving it a soft squeeze, "it's alright."
"Sherlock," John said, "can-when you're ready, can we talk about what you just said? About the whole…dying bit."
Sherlock let out a deep sigh and nodded off to sleep, finally giving in to his fatigue.
"Sherlock? Love, are you awake?"
The cheerful sound of Molly's voice woke Sherlock from his afternoon nap. He was now laying on his side,curled up in a ball under his thin hospital bed blankets. Very slowly, he blinked his eyes open and turned his gaze toward the woman standing in his doorway, carrying a small overnight bag. She was dressed in a striped jumper and gray sweatpants, looking very relaxed and together.
To Sherlock, she looked absolutely stunning.
"Hello," he slurred, a smile growing across his lips.
"Did we wake you?"
Sherlock just shook his head as he rolled himself onto his back. He looked about the dimly lit room, taking in the slightly changed scenery. The IV that had been set up during the transfusion was now gone as was John. 'Guess that death conversation will have to wait,' Sherlock thought to himself.
"What time is it?" he mumbled, running a hand over his face.
"Half past five," Molly said, walking fully into the room, "John said you drifted off around 2."
"Hmm," Sherlock sighed, "you would think that after being in a coma for two weeks I wouldn't be so…so sleepy."
"I don't think I have ever heard you say the word 'sleepy'," Molly giggled, "Your elegant vocabulary disappears when you're tired, love. You sound like a toddler."
"Sleepy is a word used in everyday vocabulary by everyday people," Sherlock replied, "Don't judge."
"Right, of course, sorry," Molly sighed, taking his hand into her own. She then leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his stubble covered cheek; "How are you feeling?" she asked, "Truly?"
"Like I'm doped up on morphine, which, evidently, I am," he replied, "So, in short, I've never been better."
Molly chuckled as she moved to lay down beside him, being mindful of his various IVs. She rested her head on his shoulder and placed her hand over his chest; "Is this alright?" she asked, "I don't want to be in the way."
"You? In the way? Never," he replied, nuzzling his forehead against hers, "When did you talk to John?"
"He called me after your doctor came in," she replied, "I was at Baker Street with Mary and…and your brother."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and sat up a bit; "What was he doing?"
"Helping us get the place set up," she replied, "for when you come home."
Sherlock smiled at her and gently stroked a piece of hair out of her eyes; "Home," he said, "you deserve that, Molly."
"As do you, Sherlock," she replied, "you and I have been through so much. Don't you want to go home? Leave this hospital room and get back to cases-"
"And building a future," Sherlock added. He looked deeply into Molly's eyes and studied her features. She looked so calm and relaxed, but there was something else. Just like she could always see through him, Sherlock could see through her. He knew what she was thinking, really thinking: "You're not sure."
Molly furrowed her brow and pulled back a bit so to look at him fully; "Sure of what, Sherlock?"
"If what I said to you was true," he explained, propping himself up on his elbows, "about how I wanted to spend a future with you."
Molly sat up as well and chewed her bottom lip. She really didn't know what to say. For some reason, her dream came to the forefront of her mind: the image of Sherlock cuddling their daughter, the silver band on his finger. She wanted those images to be true, but a dream is just a dream. Isn't it?
"Molly," Sherlock said, "you don't have to answer."
"Sherlock, I…I don't want to hurt you." she said, looking down at her lap, "I love you."
"I know that," he replied, "But I also know that you're apprehensive because of what happened."
"Sherlock,"
"I told you all of that in the hallway of that boat: how I wanted to spend a future with you, how much I loved you and then I…I gave up." He took Molly's hand into his own and studied their intertwined fingers; "John told you what I said to him, did he not?" he went on, "About the text."
"About how you wanted to die," Molly said, tearing up a bit, "yeah, he…he mentioned that, but I knew that. The look in your eyes when I-when the girls and I carried you onto the lifeboat, I knew you had given up."
"I stopped fighting this illness because I was loosing."
"You didn't loose, though. You are alive."
"But I didn't want to live."
Molly looked at him in disbelief, her heart breaking; "You don't mean that," she said, "Sherlock, how could you?"
"I didn't want to live through this anymore," he went on, "I didn't want this pain, this discomfort, this…loss of any trace of who I was. My mind was failing and I saw no way out."
"Were…were you going to make sure?" she asked, her emotions causing some build up in her throat.
Sherlock took in a deep breath and brought himself to sit up fully. After a few moments of catching his breath, Sherlock turned toward his bedside table and picked up the wooden box John had left there. He fiddled it between his fingers for a bit, contemplating the decision he was about to make, then turned his attention toward Molly once again.
"I am a selfish man, Molly Hooper," he said, "On that boat, in those last moments before Moriarty blew it all to hell, I wasn't thinking about you or John or anyone for that matter. But in my lighter moments, albeit brief, I…I did think about us. About the future we would have and I…I want that future, Molly, a real future."
He opened the box and handed it out to her. With some trepidation, Molly took the box and peered inside. Instantly, she shot her gaze up and looked at him in absolute shock. Her eyes were wide; Sherlock could see the thousands of questions speeding through her mind. All he did in response was take a hold of her hand.
"I'll be sick for the rest of my life," he went on, "and it will get this bad again, but I would rather suffer through all this pain knowing that you are at my side then simply give up on myself."
"I'm…I'm always here for you," Molly replied, "That's what I signed up for when you took me in your arms that day Moriarty came back."
"As did I, Molly," he said, giving her hand a squeeze, "I won't leave you, not until my correct time, whenever that may be."
"Is…is that why you're giving me this?"
"I'm giving you this ring because I love you. Sentimental of me, isn't it?" he said as he slipped the ring onto her finger.
"I blame it on the morphine," Molly replied, slipping the ring onto her finger.
Their eyes met and Molly leaned forward to press her lips against his. Sherlock happily returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around her as he moved them to lay back down on the bed. When their lips parted, Sherlock gently cupped her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across her cheeks.
"Forgive me," he whispered, "for all of this. We should be home now if I didn't take that case."
"Yes, but there would have been a new case for you to take on," she replied,"That is just who you are: You are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."
"And you are Molly Hooper," he said, "the woman who mattered the most."
"Did morphine always make you sentimental?"
"Hmm, sometimes it makes me see things."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
They shared a deep kiss again, letting the world around them slip away.
Hello, hello, hello!
Hope you all enjoyed this update. It was hard to get a flow for this chapter so it took sometime to really get it right. Let me know what you think; I love hearing from you guys, honestly. Just a few more to go with this one. See you next time.
Much love and many thanks,
Samwise221b
